


Worth a Thousand Words

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Body Worship, Confessions, Freshman Sam, Letters, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nude Photos, POV Multiple, Pre-Series, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: Sam only checks his campus mailbox every few weeks.





	1. Sam

                Sam only checks his campus mailbox every few weeks.

                He doesn't have friends, aside from the ones he made last semester.

                He doesn't have a hometown, or a home at all. Just a birthplace and a muddled, lengthy string of motel rooms.

                He _does_ have family, but not the kind of parents who send care packages. Well, he doesn't have _parents_ anymore either. Just the one, an estranged father he hasn't talked to since he left.

                And he does have a brother, but Dean hasn't kept in touch either. Not that Sam's made any effort himself.

                So. All in all. Therefore. Hence. No one’s left to send him anything.

                Despite those odds, Sam has mail on the second week of March. A pamphlet about rentals from the university bookstore, flyers for a few campus events, and a letter.

                A letter from Dean.

                Well, the return address reads Paul Lennon from the Lazy Inn Motel in Lone Tree, Colorado, but that’s as good as writing _D. Winchester._

Sam’s not surprised that his older brother’s still keeping tabs on him. A little annoyed, but as the baby brother, that’s his own right. Mostly, he’s comforted by it, reassured that Dean’s still expending the effort, and _that_ is just infuriating. To be that fragile, that dependent.

                No doubt Dean hacked the university records for his housing and mailbox assignments the day Sam arrived.

                Sam stares at the front of the envelope, marked with Dean’s neat, uppercase scrawl. Neater than people’d expect from someone like Dean, lovably unsophisticated and coarse as he is. It’s almost like a secret, possessing all these fragments of Dean that no one else does. The pretty handwriting is just one of many quirks and idiosyncrasies Sam’s collected about his big brother over the years. And who else could, really? He’s the only constant in Dean’s life besides Dad and hunting.

                Sam dumps the other papers into the trash and stashes the letter inside the front pocket of his backpack. He’s finished classes for the week, and his dormmate’s left for the weekend, so he makes a speedy retreat back to his room before he’s wrangled into any parties or social plans.

                The sigh of relief only comes once he closes the door behind him, locks it. Reading a letter from your brother shouldn’t need to be treated as its own event, and yet, Sam knows he’ll need privacy and the rest of the night to process it. Winchester family business is nothing if not intense.

                He drops onto the edge of his bed and retrieves the envelope, fingers tracing and skimming over the engraved letters like a blind person’s would Braille.

                It’s not bad news. If something was wrong with Dean or Dad—like mortal-wound wrong—one of them would’ve called, silent treatment be damned. His brother chose to send a handwritten letter via snail mail instead of texting or emailing, so it’s not urgent either. All of that reassurance doesn’t do a damn bit of good to untie the anxious knot in Sam’s stomach.

                He pries the adhered back flap open with careful and patient motions, the envelope still pristine when he’s finished. The whole process already feels a bit ritualized, and he’s grateful that he can do this alone without spying eyes or an interrogation.  

                The contents of the envelope are thicker than he expected, something tucked within the folds of the single sheet of paper. He shakes the letter until a thin stack falls out, paper-clipped together. He can tell by the weight, the texture of the bundle, that it’s a series of photographs. The first one’s turned inwards, its blank back facing him.

                Something’s odd about that sight. He realizes the picture has no watermark like all of his own photographs of Mom and Dad and Dean. The film-developing machines at the stores always use photo paper with a brand printed across the back.

                It’s a small detail, but it nags him. Sam can’t imagine his brother wasting money on special, unmarked semi-gloss photo paper, plus finding a printer to run the images off by himself. It’s too much trouble. Something’s not adding up.

                Dean’s arranged the photos in an orderly pile, folded the letter into crisp thirds around the stack of pictures. Both particulars suggest intent and planning, not careless or random placement. His brother flipped the first photo over for a reason.

                Sam sets the pictures aside, seeking answers, and smooths the letter out over his knees. The stationery bears the motel’s letterhead at the top. Humble, functional, without frills. In a word, Deanesque. Which only further convinces Sam that he’s missing something. Why would his brother buy his own photo paper for the pictures but neglect to get any ninety-nine-cent notebook paper for the letter?  

                He only makes it to the first word before his throat locks up.   

                 _Sammy—_

_We don’t need to talk about you leaving. What’s done is done. I won’t ask about school either because I know you’re doing great. You always were the smart one, the one who could make friends without trying._

_By now, you’ve noticed the photos. The least I could do was give you a choice, whether to look or not. You know what they are. If you just take a minute and piece it all together, you’ll be able to figure it out. Because I can’t say it. I’m so sorry._

_Jesus, you don’t have to tell me how sleazy this is, to do this to you practically the minute you turn legal. But I don’t have any more waiting left in me._

_If you can’t look, just do me one last favor. Stop reading this letter and burn them. Burn all of it._

                Sam glances at the pictures sitting next to his right thigh, seemingly innocuous. He does know. At least, he knows what he hopes they are. He pushes a hand through his hair, a breath trembling past his lips, and removes the paper clip.

                He flicks through the side of the stack and counts five photos. Five fucking pictures. That’s what’s gonna make or break Sam Winchester. Not ghosts or demons or any other monster. Five goddamn photos from his crazy, brave brother.

                He licks his lips, breaths coming in quick and shallow pants, the back of his throat dry. A dull ache’s pulsing in his head, making it impossible to consider anything but what’s in front of him. He’s entering full fight-or-flight mode, operating on pure instinct.

                He turns the first picture over, and his entire body seizes, freezes. Heart, lungs, stomach, brain, limbs. All except for his roaming eyes, skipping with frantic hunger.  

                Sam knows his brother is beautiful. A distant and removed part of himself has always recognized that. But he’s never thought of Dean as _sexy._ He’s never allowed himself to.

                His big brother’s jeans are unbuttoned and loose around his hips, the waistband of his shorts peeking out above. He’s barefoot and shirtless with his back to the camera, bent forward with one arm outstretched, reaching for his discarded shirt on the floor.

                He looks like a fucking model, and not in a corny, superficial way. But in the way that he couldn’t look any more incredible in that frozen moment, not if he tried. It’s like his body was primed for the snap of the camera, every bone and joint and muscle and hair positioned for maximum appeal.

                It's not such a shock that this long-buried, always-denied revelation drives Sam into near-wheezes. He’s entranced by the dimples of Dean’s lower back—what the hell are those called? Dimples of Venus, that’s it. The smooth curve of his biceps that make his arms look sheltering, powerful. Arms that rescued Sam from a burning house, that carried him to bed a hundred times and tucked him underneath his covers. The jutting knobs of Dean’s backbone and the backside of his ribcage that make him look maddeningly vulnerable.

                Sam’s thighs shift against the bed, spreading and tightening, his toes curling and cramping against the carpet. None of it alleviates the ache between his legs or distracts him from the sudden tightness of his jeans for more than a few seconds. He just can't tear his eyes away.

                The photo is more light and dark, black and white, than color due to the large windows in the background that soak the room in sunshine. With the initial blow of awe subsiding and a steady glucose buzz taking its place, Sam finally takes note of the photograph’s setting. The room Dean’s in doesn’t belong to a motel, far too personal and homey and furnished.

                He doesn’t know where his brother is or who’s holding the camera.  

                 _Her name’s Stephanie, the one who took these. She’s pretty good, I think, not that I know shit about art. Anyway, she’s the only reason I look half as good as I do. I met her on the case. Dad and I have been doing recon and chopping our way through a vamp nest for the last two weeks, and she almost became the next meal._

_You know how it goes. Adrenaline and relief and post-rescue, survival sex. We slept together a few times, and she mentioned that she was a photographer. After that, I just couldn’t shake the idea._

Sam laughs. Only Dean could _possibly_ think it was appropriate or timely to mention his no-strings hookups during such a confession.

_I might’ve told her that you and me were in an open relationship. And, yeah, smartass, I know what that is. I might’ve said you were my boyfriend. Can you believe that? She seemed to think it was pretty damn adorable, me wanting to send you some naughty pictures to spice up the long-distance, and offered to help me out._

Given the provided context, he assumes that Dean’s in this girl’s apartment, probably a studio. New details filter in the longer he looks. A dress hanging over the vanity chair to Dean's right, almost out of the shot, and underneath it, a pair of heels mingling with his brother’s boots.

                He tucks the first photograph at the back of the stack. Turns out that one had only been a warm-up, a tame comparison to the picture that follows it. Dean’s attempt to ease him into this, to protect him. Sam shakes his head with reluctant fondness.

                His big brother’s on his belly now, face pressed into the pillow, his arms bent at the elbow and slipped underneath it. The position emphasizes the width of his shoulders, that broadness tapering down to meet Dean's narrow waist. His skin looks flawless, but Sam knows each of the scars that litter his brother's back. Shape, size, and location. Those _are_ secrets, hunting souvenirs. He wonders whether Stephanie asked about them.

                Somewhere between the last picture and this one, Dean’s shucked his jeans and underwear. Sam's not jealous of Dean fucking this girl, not even of the thought of him fucking her right before this picture was taken. He’s only envious that she’s had the experience, the _privilege_ , and he hasn't. He craves it. He bets that Dean fucks like a champion, a cross between a beast and a lovemaker.

                Sam’s gaze falls to the blankets draped over Dean’s ass. They sit low enough to tease the beginning, rising curves of his cheeks, perfectly full, and the shadowed crack between them. He imagines that Dean’s smooth and silky down there, asshole and taint. His big brother barely has any chest hair or treasure trail at the age of twenty-four. Sam wants to burrow his face into the plush warmth of that shadow, get _inside_.

                “Oh, fuck,” he whispers, cupping his dick as it jerks and throbs in his jeans. He closes his eyes and breathes for a while. When he feels steadier, he slides the photo to the back of the pile.   

                 _I couldn’t look at the camera, and the thought of posing made my balls want to shoot back up into my body. She told me to close my eyes, relax, even try to fall asleep. She said it would look more natural that way. I don’t know. I guess you’ll be the judge of that._

                In the next one, Dean’s flipped onto his back, the photo taken at the height of the mattress to give a body-long silhouette from the side. His brother’s nearest leg is raised, foot planted, the tracts of muscle in his outer thigh and calf taut, his ankle bone smooth and protruding. His torso’s a landscape, all gentle contours. The plateau of his chest and ribcage, his nipples sharp, tiny peaks, sloping down to the subtle basin of his abdomen and pelvis.

                “Goddamnit, Dean.” Sam squeezes, _kneads_ his cock through his jeans until it hurts. He’s so hard, swollen, that even the pain feels good. A mist of sweat settles over his face, under his arms, across his chest and back. He tosses his shirt and rubs his sore balls through the denim.

                The fourth picture is absolutely devastating, and he can only offer mental thanks to Stephanie for her artistry. Dean’s still splayed on his back, but this time, it’s an aerial view that captures his big brother from chin to thigh. This one makes Sam itch and squirm because while it’s stunning, it’s lacking everything he really wants. Dean’s face, for one. For another, those fucking blankets make a reappearance, shielding Dean's groin from view. The only things that sustain Sam are the puff of golden-brown pubic hair sprouting over the top edge of the sheets and the faint, arching impression of Dean's soft cock resting against his thigh.

                He hasn’t seen his brother naked in years, not since Sam hit puberty, and nudity, even with a brother, stopped being wholly innocent. He wonders if Dean’s still bigger than him.

                For several moments, it’s unbearable to only be able to see and not touch. He wants to lick into the hollow at the base of Dean’s throat, savor the sweat there, follow the sturdy line of his collarbone. Nose into his hair and belly button and drag his lips between his brother’s ribs and over the oblique ridges of his hipbones. The black cord suspending Dean’s amulet makes the surrounding skin look pale, and to Sam, it’s the most erotic thing he’s seen so far. It’d look so fucking good against his big brother’s straining, elongated neck. Sam wants to cradle the charm on his tongue, taste and weigh the warm metal, kiss the indent it leaves behind on Dean’s chest after so many years.

                He concentrates on these imagined sensations, eyes squeezed shut, until he’s almost able to conjure a phantom touch, sound, taste of his brother. It’s false, insubstantial, imposturous when compared to the real thing. It’s worse than nothing, so Sam quits trying and shuffles the photo to the back of the pile.

                 _She convinced me to let her take one of my face. She said I had a sweet one, and that if you and me hadn’t seen each other in months, you’d want to see it. I hope you still do._  

                A laugh bubbles from Sam’s lips at first glance of the photo. He can see the remnants of stubbornness lingering in Dean’s features, the aftereffects of the hissy fit he probably threw about having a portrait taken. Despite all his false bravado and flirtatiousness, Dean doesn’t like to be the center of attention, to be exposed or closely examined. He never lets anyone scratch beneath the surface.

                A crease has formed on the inside of each brow, loyal companions to Dean’s frown or pensive expressions. Sam knows a deep wrinkle’s lining the middle of his brother's forehead, too, but Dean’s arm is slung over it, like he’s just uncovered his eyes after a lot of coaxing.

                The sunlight only catches half of Dean's face, dulling the lustrous, expressive green of his big brother's eyes, obscuring the lengthy span and flourish of his eyelashes. Some things just can’t be replicated. At its best, the photo’s still only a watered-down imitation.  

                Dean’s nostrils flare slightly with defiance, perhaps the result of an aggrieved huff. They frame the strong-but-not-perfectly-straight bridge of his nose. The freckles tumble over either side and scatter across his brother’s cheeks, reminding him of Dean as a boy. Golden and beautiful.   

                The lips come last, of course, because they’re the real heartbreakers. The most damning evidence of Sam’s desires regarding his brother. Eyes and freckles are bad enough, but _lips_ —well, lips involve intent, motivation. (The only feature more incriminating is the hands.) A person’s lips aren’t appreciated for aesthetics’ sake alone but for how they taste, how soft they feel, how well they kiss and suck. It’s not just how they look; it’s what they can _do_ that also gives them allure. And his big brother just happens to have lips that occupy a near-constant pout on account of their natural fullness. So, Sam’s fucked. The stubble on Dean’s illuminated cheek creates a fuzzy, gilded outline above his bowed top lip, along his sharp jawline.

                Sam can’t stand the friction of his jeans anymore, his skin too hot and agitated and hair-trigger sensitive. He could fucking crack cement, he's so hard, and for a few wild seconds, he's infuriated that Dean would send him this and then _not be here._ He steps out of his underwear and pants in a single motion, gulping in air and pushing the hair away from his face.

                 _I’m resting up in Colorado, scraping a little cash together before we move on. Dad’s gone to Bobby’s for a book, and he should be back in a week—the 22 nd, most like. _ 

_If I don’t hear back from you by then, I’ll have my answer. No matter what you decide, I’ll never stop being your big brother. My feelings on that won’t ever change, Sammy. If you can’t forget this, I hope you can forgive me._

                Sam’s eyes flick to the calendar pinned above his desk, heart racing as he scrambles for today’s date. He exhales. It’s only the 14th. The letter’s probably only arrived yesterday or today. He’s not sure about fate, but what are the chances? Seriously? He could’ve checked his mail a week earlier, a week later, and completely missed the letter. Dean would’ve understood the situation once Sam explained, sure, but what about that initial, gutting pain his brother would’ve felt, thinking that Sam rejected him, that he was repulsed or upset. Sam knows it’s unreasonable to blame himself for a simple mistake, to chastise himself over a hypothetical, but the hurt he could’ve caused Dean would be inexcusable.  

_I guess all I’m really trying to say is that I miss you. I need you around, kid._

_D.W._

_P.S. I know letters are old-school, but only douchebags send naked pictures in a text._

Sam grins, eyes filling to the brim, blurring his vision. The decision sort of makes itself after that. He finds his legs carrying him away from the bed to deposit the envelope, letter, and four pictures on his desktop with care. He takes a long swig from his water bottle on the nightstand before digging through the drawers for his digital camera. It’s an old model, a little clunky, a little scratched, but it’ll get the job done. His last stop is the bathroom, to grab the lotion off the sink.

                He settles into his mattress, legs loosely bent and spread open. The blood’s _pounding_ in his cock with anticipation, even more insistent now that Sam’s resolved to do something about it. He props the photo of Dean against his chest, thumbing over that lush mouth, and finally wraps a hand around his cock.

                The groan torn out of him sounds almost painful, cracked and hoarse as it is, and that’s after he’s muffled the worst of it into the pillow. He strokes his cock, simple and dirty, but he doesn’t remember it ever feeling like this. Shit, he’s gotten off to the thought of his brother more times than he can count, but afterwards, the shame’s always drowned him, convinced him that he’s taken advantage or betrayed Dean somehow. Now, his brother’s not only given him permission but offered his _blessing_. It seems that jerking off’s a lot more freeing when he doesn’t have to worry about inciting an internal moral dilemma.

                He tilts the picture against the lamp on his nightstand, exchanging it for a few pumps of lotion in one palm. He stares at the two fingers he’s coated with cream, eyes fixed on them as they glisten in the light. He can’t explain the jitters, especially not after the things he’s seen and done. It’s not like he’s being rushed or pressured to do this. He's a little exhilarated, too, though, desperate for tonight to be _more_ , a step forward.

                The next time he sees Dean, he wants to be ready for him. He wants to give his brother the sweetest ride of his life while he pops Sam’s cherry.

                His hand snakes between his legs, and he teases his taint with his greasy fingers. Just to take the edge off, grow accustomed to touching himself down there and get the initial twitches out of the way. He smears lotion down his crack, circling his hole in light, shrinking swirls until his fingertip’s rubbing right over it. It's a foreign sensation that plucks his abdominal muscles tight. His cock’s far more sensitive, but he kind of likes that leap of his belly when he touches his asshole.

                Penetration is a stark, frightening concept, but that’s fundamentally what he wants. He can’t think of that intimacy, connection, hunger to be filled, without thinking of Dean, and—yep, _fuck—_ that’s his index finger sliding into his ass up to the last knuckle. He pauses, pants, momentarily overwhelmed. Cliché as it is, he can’t stop thinking about how tight his asshole is, how it feels like a too-tight band-aid wrapped around his finger, compromising his circulation. It’s incredibly strange to feel the reflexive, intermittent clenching of those tense muscles, still a part of him and yet independent of the rest of his voluntary motor control.

                He fucks himself nice and easy, relaxing even more when he puts his hand back on his cock and the pleasure floods through his body. He summons his favorite memories of Dean, sinking deeper into the fantasy. He has a mental bank of countless moments to draw from. His big brother laughing, smiling, drinking a beer. The way Dean cups his nape during a hug, the sleep-soft scent of him that Sam catches when they share a motel bed, the heartbreaking, lovely face Dean makes when he cries.

                He wiggles and curls one finger, searching. Christ, _in theory_ , he knows where his prostate is, but trying to find it is proving more difficult with his wrist bent at a tiring angle and his hand cramping. He adds a second finger, which burns, and slows down, letting the frustration fizzle out, considering the stretch and what he’s actually doing right now. Just stating it within his head sends an abrupt pulse of pleasure through him. _I’m fucking my virgin ass so that I can take my big brother’s cock._ He moans behind his teeth, prodding deeper but remaining gentle, until he brushes something that makes him arch off the bed, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes down his temples.

                Every following thrust sparks deep-spreading pleasure, tightening his balls, wetting his cock. The glide is real smooth now, and he’s pumping faster, harder, into his ass, and it only feels _goodgoodgood_. He casts one last look at the nightstand, at Dean, before shooting up his belly, his chest, his neck. He shudders through the aftershocks, _does not_ like the feeling of tugging his fingers free from his clamping asshole. He cleans his hands with a tissue and grabs the camera.

                For once, he’s thankful for his long, gangly limbs as he raises the camera above his body as high as he can reach, snapping several pictures in a row. He hopes one of them will be decent enough.

                Sam wouldn’t say he looks _good_ , per se. More that the picture’s captured everything he needed it to capture, said everything he needed it to say. Honestly, he looks like a fucking mess. Face pink, hot and sex-flushed, with tears shining in his eyes and tracks dripping away from them. His sun-tanned skin’s shimmering with sweat, layered with ample streaks of thick, white come. The faint outline of his expanded ribcage is visible, indicating his heaving chest. The finishing touch of debauchery is his cock, still cherry-red, lying limp and sticky against his stomach. Whereas Dean’s pictures are provocative, suggestive, Sam’s lone photo is explicit, blunt. There’s no misconstruing the message he’s sending.

                Satisfied, Sam takes a shower and settles in his desk chair, still naked but much cleaner. He tears a sheet of paper from one of the notebooks tucked in the top drawer. After ten minutes of staring down the blank sheet, he starts free writing, fully intending to make a clean, final copy once he figures out what he wants to say. Instead, he leaves it. Those raw, aborted sentences are more authentic than anything else he’ll write, and he owes Dean that.

 _~~I miss you, too, how could you ever~~_ ~~~~

_~~I can't stop thinking about you holding, kissing, touching~~_ ~~~~

_~~Sometimes I wake up wet, from dreams of you fucking~~_ ~~~~

_~~I love you so much it~~_

_~~I’ve always wanted you, never meant to hurt~~_ ~~~~

_Come see me. Soon._

_S.W._

Sam dresses and heads to the twenty-four-hour computer lab in the science building. Thankfully, it’s Friday evening, so everyone’s gone or drunk or partying, leaving the lab empty. Still, he chooses the computer in the back corner for privacy and guards the printer until the photo is in his hands. He conceals it in a manila envelope along with his own letter.  

                First thing Monday morning, Sam goes to the mail center. He pays extra for overnight shipping to the Lazy Inn Motel in Colorado. 


	2. Dean

                Dean checks the front desk for mail every day.

                He hasn’t had a permanent address since he was four, although he’s had more temporary identities in the last twenty years than he can count. That combination doesn’t really make him a prime target for any kind o’ mailing list.

                He’s only waiting for one thing in particular. A letter. Just one. One that he’s not sure will even come, but each afternoon, he checks anyway.

                It’s been seven days. He figures it takes two or three for the letter to even reach Palo Alto, plus accounting for the weekend. After that, who knows how soon Sam’ll get it.

                Dean’s never been this keyed up, and that’s really sayin’ something for a guy who lives on adrenaline, cheap alcohol, and power naps. The waiting gnaws inside his belly until he feels strung-out and helpless and hollow. There’s nothing he can do to expedite the process, to alter the outcome, to shift his probability of success. It all depends on Sammy.

                He fills the long and empty hours alone the only way he knows how. He eats, drinks, hustles pool and cards, watches TV, jerks off. But he doesn’t fuck.

                He’s done with the one-night stands, the hookups, the girls altogether, if he can have Sam. All he wants is Sam.

                He grabs lunch at the lone diner in town, drinks three cups of coffee to compensate for the two hours of tossing, tangled-in-the-sheets sleep he managed last night. Dean eats his burger and fries at the booth in the back corner, _his_ booth, as the ladies here call it. He’s been a regular for the last three weeks, breakfast and lunch every day, and the waitresses do their utmost to keep it open for him. The younger ones want to fuck him, trading flirty smiles and biting glossed lips and topping off his coffee every five minutes; the older ones coo over him, even more so since Dad left, and bring him extra servings of bacon or fries or pie—no charge—to make sure he’s well-fed.

                He leaves a generous tip, folds his napkin into a tight, neat square, stacks all his silverware on his empty plate. He’s killin’ time, watching people on the street, checking his phone for any missed calls or texts, nursing his last cup of coffee. The mail seems to come only after two o’clock, so he hangs around the diner until quarter t’ three before heading back to the motel.

                The guy at the front desk lifts his eyes a fraction when Dean stops in front of him, a spark of recognition in his glance. They’ve been through this song and dance every day for a week, and they both know their parts.

                The owner sighs, simultaneously flipping the page of his magazine and smacking an envelope onto the counter. “’s your lucky day, pal.”

                “Yeah, thanks.” Dean swipes the letter with a speed that would be considered suspicious if the owner actually gave a shit.

                His hands quake as he locks the door to his room, pulls the curtains closed. The fact that Sam answered him at all feels like a triumph, but Dean doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. False hope has never done a hunter any favors.

                Dean uses his pocketknife to cut through the thin, cardboard flap of the priority envelope. Now that Sammy’s livin’ on the straight and narrow, he probably has even less money to his name than he did as a hunter, depending on some shitty minimum-wage job instead of an inexhaustible source of fraudulent credit cards. Still, the kid dished out the extra cash to make sure the letter got here in time. The gesture touches Dean, deeper than he’d ever admit. Then again, Sammy’s always been thoughtful with him, Dean thinks, fingering the amulet hanging around his neck.

                A second envelope sits inside the one from the post office, and this one is Sam’s. His brother writes in all caps, just like him, but there’s always a hectic flick to Sam’s letters, the result of his overgrown brain going a mile a minute, never slowing. Sam doesn’t use an alias in the return address. Might be so that his name matches the university records in case the letter is, in fact, returned, thereby eliminating any suspicion from the school. Realistically, though, Dean’d wager it’s just because Sammy doesn’t need throwaway identities anymore. He’s outta the family business. That’s the whole point of this four-year vacation, after all.  

                Dean shrugs off that old sting, that familiar hurt. He promised Sam he’d leave all that behind in the past, where it belongs. There’d be no quicker way to drive his little brother off again than by rubbing his face in the worst fight his family ever had.

                He chuckles low and private, inspecting his brother’s signature. It’s not often that a Winchester can put his real name to paper, but Dean’s seen that autograph hundreds of times. At the top of Sammy’s math homework and book reports and driver’s permit and all those tests with the big, red A+ circled on them. His baby brother makes his “As” funny, like he’s halfway to drawin’ a star—or a pentagram—and then quits. It’s just one of Sammy’s little oddities, but it goddamn breaks Dean’s heart open, seeing it nestled between the “S” and “M” in the envelope’s top, left corner.  

                He bends the metal tabs on the back of the manila envelope, half his mouth lifting into an unstoppable smile. He remembers calling them “vanilla envelopes” one time in middle school, mishearing his teacher. He thought they were named for their color or something, and when he mentioned needing one for school to Dad, Sammy had corrected him and erupted into a fit of giggles. His baby brother had been nine maybe, clued in on the supernatural world for only a few months, and it had been so good to see Sam acting like a goofy kid, smiling and laughing and acting his age. Dean hadn’t even cared that the little shit was relentlessly making fun of him.

                Dean exhales, lips pursed in a whistle as the air rushes out in a humid stream. The shit his baby brother does to him, how the smallest, most unextraordinary thing Sam does sends him through a fucking loop. It’s unbelievable.

                The contents are so light the envelope feels empty, but two pieces of paper, stapled together, slide onto Dean’s lap when he upends it.

                The first page is from a notebook, blue and pink lines setting the margins. Sam’s removed the frilly edge where the paper connects to the notebook rings, the left side of the page torn neatly along the perforated line. “Nerd,” Dean huffs, eyeing the few, scant lines of his brother’s writing.

                When he actually reads the message, it knocks him right on his ass, onto the edge of the bed behind him. The words might not be plenty, but they do the trick. Dean goes so still that he doesn’t start breathing again until he’s reread the letter for the fourth time.  

                 _Come see me. Soon._   

                Yes. He will. He’s gonna—he has four days before Dad’s supposed to come back. He can do a lot with four days. They can do so much in four days.

                Sam wants to see him, and that’s a fucking miracle right there. But it’s not just that. Sam _wants him._ Wants him in the ways Dean was too scared, too sickened to confide in his own letter. But there they are, the words stark and naked and unveiled. _Holding, kissing, touching. Fucking._

“God, yeah,” Dean breathes, squeezing his eyes closed as he palms his swelling cock. He unzips his jeans, groaning at the cool, inflowing air, the release of the confining denim. He’s getting turned on by nothing more than a couple half-sentences scribbled by his brother, growing itchy under his skin, overheated beneath his clothes.

                For a moment, he forgets that he’s only halfway done. His dick is demanding top priority with every throb, but he ignores it and folds back the first page.

                “Jesus Christ, Sam. C’mon,” he whispers, dropping his head. He tries another glimpse, and this time, the picture hooks him, won’t let him turn away.

                His sweet baby brother is _wrecked_ , ruined by his own hands based on the bottle of lotion near Sam’s shoulder. He must’ve stroked himself off, but what else? Did he flick his nipples, grope his balls? Maybe go a little farther down and back and tickle that spot deep inside?

                His cock jumps at the thought. He’s never taken a personal interest in that before, but maybe with Sammy—with those slender, shapely fingers of his and that big body to overlap him, cover him inside and out.

                “Get it fucking together,” he chides, now sitting bare-assed on his bed, jeans pushed down to his knees. He’s ridiculous, a fucking joke, scolding himself in an empty motel room with his hard dick bobbing in the air.

                Sam looks—he looks fucking _perfect._ His hair’s getting longer, flipping out around his ears, bangs tumbling down to his eyebrows. He wonders if it’s a “fuck you” to Dad and his military lifestyle, or a way to further distance himself from the hunter persona, or maybe it’s just an opportunity to demonstrate that he has _some_ control over his own life, even if that control only extends to his appearance. Whatever the reason, the shaggy, untamed cut makes his brother’s eyes appear darker, more slanted, clever and coy, seductive and secretive. That’s about right, Dean concludes.

                At nineteen, Sam’s filled out in every direction, his growth spurt most likely (hopefully) at its end. He’s stretched long and lean, strips of muscle prominent in his arms and thighs and stomach. He has abs that Dean will never attain, not even if he did bother to work out, and the opaque, milky come runs and settles right ’n’ pretty into the grooves of that six-pack. His baby brother’s cock is shiny and polished with spunk and lotion, the skin still rosy-tight and engorged.

                Dean’s witnessing the treasured afterglow, the few moments where Sam is the most exposed and defenseless. He wants to protect him as much as he wants to fuck him, the line between brother and lover blurred so badly in Dean’s mind that he treats the terms as interchangeable. He’s fucked, that’s for goddamn sure.  

                He turns the second page over, hoping for more, but no such luck. Now, to be fair, Dean’s own pictures only ranged from PG-13 to R, while Sammy’s selfie blew right through to NC-17. He certainly got more than he gave his brother, and he’s not trying to be greedy. But. Would it really have been so hard to snap a shot of that ass, that tiny, pristine hole, possibly tender and slick from Sam playing with it?

                “Fuckin’ little tease,” Dean smirks. “Shoulda known you’d keep the rest o’ the goods to yourself ’til I got there.”

                He slumps the rest of the way to the mattress, bunching his shirt up high enough to twist and circle his nipples. He borrows some precome from his oozing cock to slick his fingers, rousing his nipples into hard points. His other hand jerks his cock, tight and slow, pulling moans from behind Dean’s clamped teeth.

                If he thought before that he could share Sam with anyone else, somehow treat _them_ as casual, he was fucking kidding himself. Delusional, certifiable. No one else should know the exact location of Sam’s dimples or his favorite cereal or the willful, pouty bitchface his little brother mastered at the age of five. Sam’s been a knockout since he was fourteen, and Dean imagines that he’s only gonna become more devastating the older he gets. More intelligent, more beautiful, more determined, more compassionate.

                Dean wrestles out of his jeans and scoots up the bed so that he can plant his feet on the edge, keeping his legs drawn in close to his body, tightening his core and spreading himself open all at once, the cool air attacking his balls. He fucks furiously into his hand, hips thrusting off the mattress to meet it, muscles tense with a sweet, underlying ache. Dean clenches his asshole, just to feel that extra flare of sensation, and he reckons that it might be nice to clutch snug around Sam’s big cock, knees near his ears, body taut and compact, the pleasure-pain-pressure just building, building, building until he fucking _pops._   

                A warm splash of come hits his throat, a whorish moan tearing from his chest. He’d like that, too. Tasting Sam, having his baby brother shoot a hot load point-blank all over Dean’s face, his fucked-out, gaping asshole.

                “ _Ah_ ,” he whimpers, shame settling into his skin like a fever, milking his cock for the last weak spurts while his hips screw and chase the dregs of his orgasm. He’s downright _gasping_ in the moments after, feeling kitten-weak and raw. He’s gonna die. The first time Sam actually lays a hand on him, he’s gonna die.

                His phone’s in his hand before his spunk even cools. The ringback tone comes and goes, loudening and receding, five times before the call’s picked up.

                “Dean?” Months. Fucking months without hearing that voice. It’s getting deeper, smoother, more masculine, with every passing year. His own name’s never sounded so sweet, leaves him shivering with goosebumps. He swallows and pinches his eyes shut, lets Sam say it one more time so he can hear it again.

                “Yeah, Sammy. It’s me.”

                “Did—? I mean, did you—?”

                He takes pity on his baby brother. “You’re not in class, are you? I didn’t interrupt anything?”

                “No, no,” Sam replies hurriedly, the hopefulness palpable in his tone. Dean’s eyes burn, and he bites into his bottom lip, grinning. “You didn’t. I finish early on Tuesdays.”

                “So, um. Hey, Sammy.” He clears his throat. “That offer o’ yours still good?”

                He hears his brother’s exhale through the phone. The _relief._ No one’s ever needed him, missed him, like Sam does. “Yeah. Of course it is. Please, I—Please.”

                “You got it, Sammy. I’m comin’.” He’s already researched it; thirteen hundred miles, give or take, and twenty hours of driving. “Gimme a day, baby.”

                Dean rinses off in the shower, tucks the envelope inside a shirt at the bottom of his duffel, and sends a text to Dad so he doesn’t double back to Colorado from South Dakota. He’ll meet up with his father in the next town for the next case. But first, he needs a few days of that Californian sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> I nearly went insane trying to do the math on Sam and Dean's respective ages, so feel free to check it and tell me if it needs correcting. If Sam started college fall 2002 (born May 1983), then he's still 19 in March 2003 and Dean (born Jan 1979) is newly 24.


End file.
